So, lately it’s occurred to me that those of us who have dogs as pets measure our lives in dog years. It seems a good place to start, anyway-as a kid, I always wanted a dog, but we couldn’t have one-my brother’s allergies, and my own medical conditions-and more about those later-prohibited it. Later, in college, I got a puppy, and named her Kelly after the dormitory. I got her when she was just under 6 weeks old, and I was 20, and I carried her to classes nestled in my canvas booksack. Kelly was there when I got married, was my kids’ first dog, and a steadfast companion on long walks and runs. I lost her when she was a little less than 10, when she got hit by a train.
Then there was Jake, a wonderful pitbull- I got him at about 4 weeks, when I was 32, and he was the prototype of all dogs-I’ve lots of funny "Jake stories." He slept with my daughter until he got too big for the bed, and was there to comfort all of us with his ridiculous antics when my kids’ mother died, and he moved with us to New Mexico to be the scourge of cattle and rattlesnakes alike, and to die, battle scarred and content, at a ripe old age of 12. He was ailing when Rita-that’s the wife-and I first got together, and we had yet another dog when we got married-Griz, who was the progeny of Jake’s last year, and the German Shepherd next door, and was born the summer I turned 40.
At 12, Griz is still with us, and still seems to think he’s a puppy, as long as it’s not too hot out. Around the time I built our house in the Jemez, maybe two years after we got Griz, we got another dog-a fila brasileiro that I named Pooh Bear. Filas, for those who don’t know, are large, fierce dogs that don’t like strangers-in fact, I used to joke about the dog killing the UPS man-a real possibility that we had engineered safeguards against-or a bear, something that very nearly happened when Poohbear was three….when my sister died, back in 2007—and more about that later as well-we left the Jemez house, and bought a home in White Rock, the bedroom of Los Alamos, so that my nephews could attend Los Alamos High. We bought a pretty nice house on the perimeter, and turned the RV parking driveway into a pretty secure dogpen, and that’s where Poohbear and Griz have remained, safely, since 2007, and right up until about four months ago.
While Poohbear was, admittedly an awful lot like a loaded gun with a mind of his own, I kept him responsibly, and he really posed no danger to anyone-especially at 10, when he was nearing the end of his life, anyway. Apparently, one of my newer neighbors didn’t accept that premise, and only saw a 180 lb. menace, instead of my steadfast companion of 10 years, and, of course, I’m not the only mad scientist in town, so someone put a ladder to the fence, and shot my buddy with a poison dart.
I had already been in a pretty foul mood since Thanksgiving, but that really didn’t help at all-I still look out my study window into the dogpen for Poohbear-and miss my friend terribly. Just last month, though, Rita fell in love with a little pibull mix puppy up in Taos-lab and pitbull, we think, so Griz at least has company.
When I first met Anthony Davis, I was 36, and it was his 86[SUP]th[/SUP] birthday. Not having ever really expected to get old, I’ve always liked old people-I wish I could say we hit it off right away, but it was close-we felt each other out. I’d been to about two peyote meetings, if I recall, and we talked about that, then I asked him about being his age, and what that felt like, and he said something that has stuck with me for years, and become truer every year..
Anyway, there have been quite a few posts on ailments, and the aging martial artist, and I’ve avoided them, pretty much, up until now. I wonder, though, how are you doing Georgia? Stomach settled out? I’ve been praying the knees off my jeans for you. Dirty Dog-I hope you’re reading this especially, and have many dives and fast drives ahead of you. Bill Mattocks-I look forward to the day you post a photo of yourself in your own black belt. If I’ve left anyone out-it’s because they’re too young, Janna-though I prayed out the knees in two pair of jeans for your recovery :lol:-or simply because I’m already growing overlong, and I have questions, before we’re done….
Like, know how much a 55 gallon drum of oil weighs? I do. It weighs 487.5 lbs. I know this, because, as a younger man, I used to show off by wrapping my arms around one and picking it up. As the student of a former vaudeville strongman, I still will occasionally twist a horseshoe or piece of 3/8" rebar, and still enjoy smashing concrete pavers from time to time, but I haven’t hoisted an oil drum since the year I met Anthony. We were carting some waste oil from my facility to the holding area, and the pumps were broken, and I lifted up a barrel to dump it in the tank (there was a funnel set at ground level for the underground tank) and my knee felt as though it was going to POP!! for just a second, then the oil poured out of the barrel and my knee felt better, and I thought, Well, I better not do that anymore. :lol:
I still feel like I'm 16.Now, though, as Georgia said, it’s my turn……
I’ve posted before about my medical history, and won’t bore with the details-an item of interest, though-back in 2005 or so, I officially separated from the lab to do…..something else…..it required more than a little travel. I was somewhere else when word of my sister’s rather sudden illness got to me, and it took some arranging to get back home. After an 18 hour flight into Denver, I drove down to Albuquerque-about another 8 hours. Then, it looked like my sister was going to be okay, and I drove back to Denver, and then I had to turn right back around and drive down to my sister’s deathbed.
I noticed, a long the way, that my right calf was sore, and really didn’t think anything of it, until Mom-the nurse/shrink, and uncle, the doctor, took a look at it and said "blood clot." So I went right from my sister’s funeral to the hospital, and from there home to bed, where I had to keep my foot up, take painkillers, and inject anti-coagulants into my belly daily for three months…..funny, one of the very mechanisms that allowed me to function so well with limited lung tissue is part of what led to the blood clot-I have a higher than normal red cell count, part and parcel of life at high altitude, or with ½ of a lung, or both………at the end of those three months, I went back to work, and eventually requalified for what I had been doing-what I’d basically helped start up from an idea on paper to a full fledged working program with facilities, assets and personnel. One of the quals is a lot like any military or law-enforcement PFT, and when I passed that again, it was time to move on, being able to leave the job on my own terms, and having accomplished what I’d set out to do, back in 2004…..my uncle -who was on the cutting edge of medicine at one time, on staff at Johns Hopkins, had pointed out that even though I’d been on extended travel and sitting for most of it, and I’m a tall guy-both of which made me a circumstantial candidate for clotting, along with the high red cell count- deep vein thrombosis like mine in what appeared to be an otherwise healthy male was sometimes a precursor to liver or pancreatic cancer-which my dad died of….so regular MRIs and blood work became part of my routine. No biggie, compared to my childhood-though I’m kind of claustrophobic for MRIs, but it’s not as bad as Level A HAZMAT suit, so I can handle it. :lol:
Back around the end of last summer, though, I started noticing some shortness of breath-nothing serious, just not being able to sustain notes as long as I’d been used to when singing. I also had some occasional pain in my chest and back. Turns out, the scarring on my lungs-pretty much dormant since I was born, has spread a little, and I’m down to maybe 1/3 of a lung instead of half. That pain I felt was from my ribcage actually expanding to get my body more air. On top of all that, I actually do have some "inflammation" in my pancreas and liver-in fact, as I get thinner, the distention of my bellybecomes more and more noticable-not cancer, but worth monitoring, and not-sob!-drinking…..not drinking much, anyway…..:lfao:
So, as I always have, I look into the abyss, and, for the first time in years, it looks back…..I’ve had fine medical support all my life, and we’ve worked out a pretty good plan for managing, what has been, after all, completely inevitable from the day I was born…I can’t say I’m not pissed, or sad, or scared-I find myself, surprisingly, all of those things-and, don’t misunderstand, it’s still all vague enough, and I’m still strong enough that it could be decades before I die, but it won’t be easy, or without an eventual oxygen bottle or generator, and it probably won’t be decades, but hey, I wasn’t supposed to get to 11. Scared? More scared that I don’t have what it takes-the "fight of your life" isn’t such a big deal at 6 or 7, looking back, it was just life, and I don’t know that I have that much fight left in me, at 52…..
After it’s all done, though: planning my medical approach, my workouts, weight loss, etc. After organizing my….."affairs," so that the transition will be easier after I’m gone, after explaining all the "duties" that will fall to my son on my passing, I’m left with….well, first off, I still want to see what happens next-no one wants to leave before the end of the movie, but time takes us for a ride, and that’s it’s end, really.
But I’m not going to spend my last days drowning in bed-I’ve seen people die suffering, and I’ll take matters into my own hands before it comes to that-I’ve made arrangements for that too. Which brings me to my first question, which really has two parts-or three-parts that put this rather whingy post in the Study, where I’ve done most of my posting, after all:
1)Given the prospect, would you end your life?
2)How?, and, if not, why not?
As for putting my affairs in order, I’m still left with the prospect of a "bucket list," things I absolutely must do before it’s all over:
Build another house. Rita-that’s the wife-points out that building a patio almost brought us to blows, so this might not happen, but I wouldn’t mind getting it right that way….
Drag out that novel of mine and get it published.
Run the Leadville 100 in under 30 or 24 hours. Rita-that’s the wife-says I have to be able to run to the top of Wheeler and back, and she’s right, but that’s in keeping with my "management plan" anyway, but I may have to be satisfied with easier ultras like that nice flat one down in Tucson….
Sail round Cape Horn……this one’s probably not gonna happen, anymore than I’m ever going to climb Everest again, but it could….
Take Rita to Venice. And New York, so she can see that it's not all concrete and skyscrapers...:lol:
Make a room full of people cry tears of joy
Outlive my mom-she’s seen enough people die in her life, and losing another kid just wouldn’t be fair, at this point.
Become a Knife Maker’s Guild certified master knife maker. Could have done this years ago, I think.
Build LOTS of things-too many to mention-that electric motorcycle I designed, a Factory Five racer, put a Northstar engine into a Chevy Vega (don’t ask! :lol: ) knives, and swords-and help Rita with her woodwork...I'd love to build my sailboat-submarine, but unless I fall into an exta $25 million or so, it's just not gonna happen...:lol:
Get dental implants. I spent the first 12 years or so of my life on cortico steroids, and they destroy calcium. You can replenish all the calcium in your body, though, except for dental calcium-my teeth are a wreck, and will certainly be gone before I am. It will be nice to die with a nice white smile again.....:lfao:
Set up a foundation to take wounded vets and vets with PTSD on camping trips and to do ceremony with them. On my recent forays into the wild, it’s occurred to me on more than one occasion how what I do for pleasure, young men half a world away have to do under the worst of conditions, and how they might benefit, as I do-after returning to civilian life-from the peace that comes from being away from the presence and clamor of the things of man.
Take my kids sailing with the whales, one more time….
Dive with the whale sharks, one more time.....
Live to my sons 60[SUP]th[/SUP] birthday-I’ll be 83, and that’s probably plenty!
Barring that, at least outlive this little dog we’ve got. We’re calling him "Banjo."
View attachment $DSCN1257.jpg
View attachment $DSCN1261.jpg
What about you? Gotta "bucket list?" Wanna share? I'd suggest you get right on it, especially if you're young. Next thing you know, you'll be in Walmart watching some guy go by tugging along an oxygen bottle, wondering where the time went, and how you'll manage to go diving with that thing...:lfao:
Then there was Jake, a wonderful pitbull- I got him at about 4 weeks, when I was 32, and he was the prototype of all dogs-I’ve lots of funny "Jake stories." He slept with my daughter until he got too big for the bed, and was there to comfort all of us with his ridiculous antics when my kids’ mother died, and he moved with us to New Mexico to be the scourge of cattle and rattlesnakes alike, and to die, battle scarred and content, at a ripe old age of 12. He was ailing when Rita-that’s the wife-and I first got together, and we had yet another dog when we got married-Griz, who was the progeny of Jake’s last year, and the German Shepherd next door, and was born the summer I turned 40.
At 12, Griz is still with us, and still seems to think he’s a puppy, as long as it’s not too hot out. Around the time I built our house in the Jemez, maybe two years after we got Griz, we got another dog-a fila brasileiro that I named Pooh Bear. Filas, for those who don’t know, are large, fierce dogs that don’t like strangers-in fact, I used to joke about the dog killing the UPS man-a real possibility that we had engineered safeguards against-or a bear, something that very nearly happened when Poohbear was three….when my sister died, back in 2007—and more about that later as well-we left the Jemez house, and bought a home in White Rock, the bedroom of Los Alamos, so that my nephews could attend Los Alamos High. We bought a pretty nice house on the perimeter, and turned the RV parking driveway into a pretty secure dogpen, and that’s where Poohbear and Griz have remained, safely, since 2007, and right up until about four months ago.
While Poohbear was, admittedly an awful lot like a loaded gun with a mind of his own, I kept him responsibly, and he really posed no danger to anyone-especially at 10, when he was nearing the end of his life, anyway. Apparently, one of my newer neighbors didn’t accept that premise, and only saw a 180 lb. menace, instead of my steadfast companion of 10 years, and, of course, I’m not the only mad scientist in town, so someone put a ladder to the fence, and shot my buddy with a poison dart.
I had already been in a pretty foul mood since Thanksgiving, but that really didn’t help at all-I still look out my study window into the dogpen for Poohbear-and miss my friend terribly. Just last month, though, Rita fell in love with a little pibull mix puppy up in Taos-lab and pitbull, we think, so Griz at least has company.
When I first met Anthony Davis, I was 36, and it was his 86[SUP]th[/SUP] birthday. Not having ever really expected to get old, I’ve always liked old people-I wish I could say we hit it off right away, but it was close-we felt each other out. I’d been to about two peyote meetings, if I recall, and we talked about that, then I asked him about being his age, and what that felt like, and he said something that has stuck with me for years, and become truer every year..
Anthony Davis said:
Anyway, there have been quite a few posts on ailments, and the aging martial artist, and I’ve avoided them, pretty much, up until now. I wonder, though, how are you doing Georgia? Stomach settled out? I’ve been praying the knees off my jeans for you. Dirty Dog-I hope you’re reading this especially, and have many dives and fast drives ahead of you. Bill Mattocks-I look forward to the day you post a photo of yourself in your own black belt. If I’ve left anyone out-it’s because they’re too young, Janna-though I prayed out the knees in two pair of jeans for your recovery :lol:-or simply because I’m already growing overlong, and I have questions, before we’re done….
Like, know how much a 55 gallon drum of oil weighs? I do. It weighs 487.5 lbs. I know this, because, as a younger man, I used to show off by wrapping my arms around one and picking it up. As the student of a former vaudeville strongman, I still will occasionally twist a horseshoe or piece of 3/8" rebar, and still enjoy smashing concrete pavers from time to time, but I haven’t hoisted an oil drum since the year I met Anthony. We were carting some waste oil from my facility to the holding area, and the pumps were broken, and I lifted up a barrel to dump it in the tank (there was a funnel set at ground level for the underground tank) and my knee felt as though it was going to POP!! for just a second, then the oil poured out of the barrel and my knee felt better, and I thought, Well, I better not do that anymore. :lol:
I still feel like I'm 16.Now, though, as Georgia said, it’s my turn……
I’ve posted before about my medical history, and won’t bore with the details-an item of interest, though-back in 2005 or so, I officially separated from the lab to do…..something else…..it required more than a little travel. I was somewhere else when word of my sister’s rather sudden illness got to me, and it took some arranging to get back home. After an 18 hour flight into Denver, I drove down to Albuquerque-about another 8 hours. Then, it looked like my sister was going to be okay, and I drove back to Denver, and then I had to turn right back around and drive down to my sister’s deathbed.
I noticed, a long the way, that my right calf was sore, and really didn’t think anything of it, until Mom-the nurse/shrink, and uncle, the doctor, took a look at it and said "blood clot." So I went right from my sister’s funeral to the hospital, and from there home to bed, where I had to keep my foot up, take painkillers, and inject anti-coagulants into my belly daily for three months…..funny, one of the very mechanisms that allowed me to function so well with limited lung tissue is part of what led to the blood clot-I have a higher than normal red cell count, part and parcel of life at high altitude, or with ½ of a lung, or both………at the end of those three months, I went back to work, and eventually requalified for what I had been doing-what I’d basically helped start up from an idea on paper to a full fledged working program with facilities, assets and personnel. One of the quals is a lot like any military or law-enforcement PFT, and when I passed that again, it was time to move on, being able to leave the job on my own terms, and having accomplished what I’d set out to do, back in 2004…..my uncle -who was on the cutting edge of medicine at one time, on staff at Johns Hopkins, had pointed out that even though I’d been on extended travel and sitting for most of it, and I’m a tall guy-both of which made me a circumstantial candidate for clotting, along with the high red cell count- deep vein thrombosis like mine in what appeared to be an otherwise healthy male was sometimes a precursor to liver or pancreatic cancer-which my dad died of….so regular MRIs and blood work became part of my routine. No biggie, compared to my childhood-though I’m kind of claustrophobic for MRIs, but it’s not as bad as Level A HAZMAT suit, so I can handle it. :lol:
Back around the end of last summer, though, I started noticing some shortness of breath-nothing serious, just not being able to sustain notes as long as I’d been used to when singing. I also had some occasional pain in my chest and back. Turns out, the scarring on my lungs-pretty much dormant since I was born, has spread a little, and I’m down to maybe 1/3 of a lung instead of half. That pain I felt was from my ribcage actually expanding to get my body more air. On top of all that, I actually do have some "inflammation" in my pancreas and liver-in fact, as I get thinner, the distention of my bellybecomes more and more noticable-not cancer, but worth monitoring, and not-sob!-drinking…..not drinking much, anyway…..:lfao:
So, as I always have, I look into the abyss, and, for the first time in years, it looks back…..I’ve had fine medical support all my life, and we’ve worked out a pretty good plan for managing, what has been, after all, completely inevitable from the day I was born…I can’t say I’m not pissed, or sad, or scared-I find myself, surprisingly, all of those things-and, don’t misunderstand, it’s still all vague enough, and I’m still strong enough that it could be decades before I die, but it won’t be easy, or without an eventual oxygen bottle or generator, and it probably won’t be decades, but hey, I wasn’t supposed to get to 11. Scared? More scared that I don’t have what it takes-the "fight of your life" isn’t such a big deal at 6 or 7, looking back, it was just life, and I don’t know that I have that much fight left in me, at 52…..
After it’s all done, though: planning my medical approach, my workouts, weight loss, etc. After organizing my….."affairs," so that the transition will be easier after I’m gone, after explaining all the "duties" that will fall to my son on my passing, I’m left with….well, first off, I still want to see what happens next-no one wants to leave before the end of the movie, but time takes us for a ride, and that’s it’s end, really.
But I’m not going to spend my last days drowning in bed-I’ve seen people die suffering, and I’ll take matters into my own hands before it comes to that-I’ve made arrangements for that too. Which brings me to my first question, which really has two parts-or three-parts that put this rather whingy post in the Study, where I’ve done most of my posting, after all:
1)Given the prospect, would you end your life?
2)How?, and, if not, why not?
As for putting my affairs in order, I’m still left with the prospect of a "bucket list," things I absolutely must do before it’s all over:
Build another house. Rita-that’s the wife-points out that building a patio almost brought us to blows, so this might not happen, but I wouldn’t mind getting it right that way….
Drag out that novel of mine and get it published.
Run the Leadville 100 in under 30 or 24 hours. Rita-that’s the wife-says I have to be able to run to the top of Wheeler and back, and she’s right, but that’s in keeping with my "management plan" anyway, but I may have to be satisfied with easier ultras like that nice flat one down in Tucson….
Sail round Cape Horn……this one’s probably not gonna happen, anymore than I’m ever going to climb Everest again, but it could….
Take Rita to Venice. And New York, so she can see that it's not all concrete and skyscrapers...:lol:
Make a room full of people cry tears of joy
Outlive my mom-she’s seen enough people die in her life, and losing another kid just wouldn’t be fair, at this point.
Become a Knife Maker’s Guild certified master knife maker. Could have done this years ago, I think.
Build LOTS of things-too many to mention-that electric motorcycle I designed, a Factory Five racer, put a Northstar engine into a Chevy Vega (don’t ask! :lol: ) knives, and swords-and help Rita with her woodwork...I'd love to build my sailboat-submarine, but unless I fall into an exta $25 million or so, it's just not gonna happen...:lol:
Get dental implants. I spent the first 12 years or so of my life on cortico steroids, and they destroy calcium. You can replenish all the calcium in your body, though, except for dental calcium-my teeth are a wreck, and will certainly be gone before I am. It will be nice to die with a nice white smile again.....:lfao:
Set up a foundation to take wounded vets and vets with PTSD on camping trips and to do ceremony with them. On my recent forays into the wild, it’s occurred to me on more than one occasion how what I do for pleasure, young men half a world away have to do under the worst of conditions, and how they might benefit, as I do-after returning to civilian life-from the peace that comes from being away from the presence and clamor of the things of man.
Take my kids sailing with the whales, one more time….
Dive with the whale sharks, one more time.....
Live to my sons 60[SUP]th[/SUP] birthday-I’ll be 83, and that’s probably plenty!
Barring that, at least outlive this little dog we’ve got. We’re calling him "Banjo."
View attachment $DSCN1257.jpg
View attachment $DSCN1261.jpg
What about you? Gotta "bucket list?" Wanna share? I'd suggest you get right on it, especially if you're young. Next thing you know, you'll be in Walmart watching some guy go by tugging along an oxygen bottle, wondering where the time went, and how you'll manage to go diving with that thing...:lfao:
Last edited:
My chest and stomach have been feeling better since I gave up firewater (for the most part), coffee and crap food. I get a consultation tomorrow for an UGI scope procedure. Please also know I pray for you.
Always a pleasure..............
